Celebrating Statehood: The Indiana Centennial

The fall of 1914 was a bloody one in Europe. The British and German were winding down the First Battle of Ypres and would soon dig in to begin the long and futile period of trench warfare. On the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, however, it was an election year. On November 3 Hoosiers trooped to the polls and “for a time the war dropped into the background as all Indiana played the election game,” wrote Cedric C. Cummins in his book on public opinion during World War I.

In addition to the usual candidates on the ballot, voters had the chance to register their opinions on two special issues: a convention to alter the state’s constitution and whether to celebrate the state’s centennial in 1916 by appropriating two million dollars for the construction of a memorial building to house the state library and other historical agencies. Both measures suffered defeat at the polls.

Democratic governor Samuel M. Ralston, who became a leading force behind the state’s eventual centennial observance, believed the memorial plan was rejected not because Hoosiers were against celebrating the event, but because they objected to the amount of money sought for the building.

Ralston was proven right; in just two years, backed by the efforts of the Indiana Historical Commission and thousands of volunteers, Indiana residents would see the creation of state parks, the beginnings of an improved statewide road system, the creation of permanent memorials in numerous communities, and an overall awakening of interest in the nineteenth state’s history.

At Governor Ralston’s request, the 1915 Indiana General Assembly agreed to appropriate $25,000 and create a nine-member Indiana Historical Commission to promote the centennial celebration. The legislature’s financial support of the commission marked the first notable state commitment of funds to history in Indiana. Of the $25,000, $20,000 was earmarked for the promotion of centennial activities, while the remaining amount went to collecting, editing, and publishing Indiana’s past.

The IHC first met on April 23 and 24, 1915, in Governor Ralston’s Statehouse office. An illustrious group joined Ralston on the commission, including James Woodburn of Indiana University, Reverend John Cavanaugh of the University of Notre Dame, and Charity Dye, an Indianapolis schoolteacher. The commission employed Professor Walter C. Woodward of Earlham College to direct the centennial celebration.

The commission set out to educate the state’s citizens about the centennial. Special bulletins were sent to county school superintendents asking for their cooperation; direct appeals were made to teachers in the summer and fall of 1915; a weekly IHC newsletter began publication; and commission members addressed various clubs, civic organizations, churches, and historical societies (Dye alone gave 152 talks).

The IHC also turned to film to get its message across to the public. Realizing it had neither the necessary funds nor skills needed to undertake such an enterprise, the commission called upon the public for help. Citizens soon responded by forming the Inter-State Historical Pictures Corporation, which contracted with the Selig Polyscope Company of Chicago to produce a movie titled Indiana. The seven-reel picture featured famed poet James Whitcomb Riley telling the story of the state’s development to a group of children.

To encourage former Indiana residents to return to the state for the centennial, the commission used the services of noted humorist and author George Ade. Honored, or “burdened,” Ade joked in speeches touting the centennial, with the chairmanship of the committee to “sound the call and bring all the wandering Hoosiers back into the fold,” he set about recruiting contributions from a veritable who’s who of Hoosiers for a book.

Titled An Invitation to You and Your Folks from Jim and Some More of the Home Folks, the book, published by Bobbs-Merrill Company of Indianapolis, contained messages from Governor Ralston, Vice President Thomas Marshall, Meredith Nicholson, and Booth Tarkington. Gene Stratton-Porter contributed the poem “A Limberlost Invitation,” and Riley the poem “The Hoosier in Exile.”

With its publicity campaign on its way to being a success, the commission had to turn its sights to how best to state the actual celebration; keeping in mind the lack of funds, it was clear that such events would have to be financed locally. The IHC turned to staging historical pageants. These dramas appealed strongly to the commission because they could both focus attention on Indiana’s history and bring communities together.

The commission hired William Chauncy Langdon, former first president of the American Pageant Association, as the state pageant master. Langdon’s main duties were to write and direct three pageants, one at Indiana University, another at the old state capital of Corydon, and a final one at Indianapolis. Historical studies were made, music was especially composed, and costumes were designed “for the sole purpose of producing in the sequence of its various scenes a clear, beautiful and inspiring drama and a truthful impression of the development of the State of Indiana,” noted Langdon.

These same ideas were used by local communities in developing their own pageants. The commission gave what help it could, securing centennial chairmen in all but three of Indiana’s counties, with each responsible for selecting a county committee to plan the work. The plan worked. Director Woodward reported that forty-five county or local pageants presented in 1916 were seen by an estimated 250,000 people, and anywhere from 30,000 to 40,000 Hoosiers participated in the performances.

Along with the week-long pageant in Indianapolis, capital residents had the chance to hear from President Woodrow Wilson as part of activities for Centennial Highway Day on October 12, 1916. Invited to speak by Governor Ralston, a vigorous supporter of roadway improvements, Wilson arrived in the city by presidential train (which was late). While in Indianapolis, the president reviewed an automobile parade before delivering a speech on the need for good roads to 10,000 people at the Fairgrounds Coliseum.

Perhaps the commission’s crowning achievement came with the development of Indiana’s first state parks. The movement began in April 1915 when Governor Ralston received a letter from Juliet V. Strauss, a nationally known writer living in Rockville, Indiana, appealing for help in saving the Turkey Run area in Parke County from being sold to timber interests. The commission created a special parks committee with Richard Lieber, who would become the first director of the Indiana Department of Conservation, as chairman.

While talks for purchasing the Turkey Run property for the state were under way, the commission learned of the opportunity to purchase the rugged area of McCormick’s Creek in Owen County. A total of $5,250 was raised, one-fourth of which by Owen County residents, and McCormick’s Creek became Indiana’s first state park. The commission later acquired the Turkey Run property.

When the last notes of the various pageants faded away and celebrants packed their costumes, the commission attempted to take advantage of the new opportunities presented by the centennial observance. Although a 1917 bill calling for the establishment of a permanent state agency for history failed, the commission was resurrected following World War I to organize a county-by-county war history. Since that time, Indiana has funded a state historical agency (today known as the Indiana Historical Bureau).

           

Ed Breen: Hoosier Journalist

As a teenager growing up in Fort Dodge, Iowa, Edward E. Breen, and many other citizens of the town, were attracted to the downtown one day by news of a major fire. While watching firefighters struggle to put out the flames, Breen noticed a woman with a Minolta Autocord camera around her neck and a power pack slung over her shoulder, without hesitation or explanation, march past the police barricades and into the gaggle of police and firemen.

The woman was Helen Strode, police reporter for the Fort Dodge Messenger and Chronicle, who later served as Breen’s mentor when he became a journalist. “I really liked the idea of going past the barricades, going where others were denied and where I might find something interesting,” Breen recalled.

From the time he started work as a part-time and summer employee at his hometown newspaper through years of dedicated work for the Chronicle-Tribune in Marion and The Journal Gazette in Fort Wayne, Breen found plenty of interesting material to report on and photograph. In a career that included stints as reporter, photographer, city editor, graphics director, features and special projects editor, and managing editor, Breen recognized that the discussions regarding the balance between word and picture content in newspapers ignored the fundamental point: “The purpose and function of each is totally different,” he said. “But both are tools of equal importance in carrying a message to the reader of the printed page.”

Breen has been recognized by his peers as a “pioneer in the early days of full-color newspaper photography, one of those people who made the rest of us realize what was possible,” noted Jack Ronald, publisher of the Portland Commercial Review. Emmett K. Smelser, who first met Breen forty years ago, noted that a visit to the Chronicle-Tribune’s newsroom showed why that newspaper was “considered a national leader in the bold use of color and offset printing,” and why Smelser described his colleague as the “epitome of a news professional—dedicated to his craft, his community and his state.”

Breen’s commitment to the Hoosier State also includes being one of the co-founders of the Mississinewa Battlefield Society, longtime board member for the Indiana Historical Society, columnist for the weekly Marion News Herald, and featured commentator and co-host for WBAT radio’s daily “Good Morning Grant County” program. Not a bad list of accomplishments for someone who had to teach himself how to type to secure his first job in journalism.

In the autumn of 1960 Breen was working as a drugstore soda jerk after classes were finished at his Saint Edmond High School in Fort Dodge and on weekends. One of his customers for the out-of-town newspapers for sale in the store each Sunday was the sports editor of the local newspaper. He asked Breen if he might be interested in working Friday nights in the sports department, taking call-in high school games from the area and writing three-paragraph summaries and statistics. Breen jumped at the opportunity, but came up short when the editor asked him if he could type. He answered “yes,” and spent that weekend teaching himself three-finger typing, started at the newspaper the next Friday night, and “haven’t left the newsroom (in some form) for 56 years,” he said.

After being “tossed out” of Loras College in Dubuque, Iowa, in 1964, Breen found a job as a photographer at the Dubuque Telegraph-Herald. It was there that editor Jim Geladas, a pioneer in the photojournalism world of the 1960s, gave the young Breen the direction and education he needed to become a professional photographer and, “to an extent, a writer.” A former Marine, Geladas ran his newsroom that way. “You learned, by God, or moved on,” said Breen. “He asked much and gave much.”

After marrying Ruth Joanne Schiltz on February 27, 1965, Breen moved to Wisconsin and edited the weekly Plymouth Review. He was there when Dick Martin, who had been his Sunday editor in Dubuque, started as editor of Marion, Indiana’s Leader-Tribune (the morning newspaper that preceded the merger with the Marion Chronicle into the all-day Chronicle Tribune). Martin asked Breen to come to Marion to be a reporter/photographer for $110 a week, a slightly better offer than one he had received from the Milwaukee Journal. “I told Martin I would stay two years,” Breen said. “That was 50 years ago.”

Martin cared deeply about the craft of storytelling and saw that Breen understood how to tell stories with pictures, was a “reasonably good writer,” and gave him the freedom to do both, often on the same assignment. Martin assembled “a sort of magic-moment staff” in Marion, Breen recalled, including Gene Policinski, Phil Witherow, Jerry Miller, and others, that resulted in winning the Hoosier State Press Association’s Blue Ribbon daily newspaper award for several years in a row. Personal honors also came Breen’s way, including Indiana News Photographer of the Year in 1967 and numerous photography and writing awards from the Indiana Associated Press Managing Editors and the Hoosier State Press Association.

Breen moved to the Journal Gazette in August 1995, working as that newspaper’s assistant managing editor for photography and graphics until retiring in July 2009. Craig Klugman, Breen’s editor for nearly fifteen years, noted that his friend liked to say his job at the Fort Wayne newspaper was to “walk around the newsroom, coffee cup in hand, assuring younger staff members that things would be OK. Ed did that, certainly, but he did much more.”

Klugman worked directly with Breen on the newspaper’s Sunday “Perspective” section. The editorial board met every Monday to discuss what was coming up on Sunday. This put Breen in a difficult position, said Klugman, because the editorial staff, by definition, had to talk about positions, while Breen, as a member of the news staff, had to remain objective.

“But Ed handled the problem perfectly,” said Klugman. “He stayed out of any discussions of what we would say. But he always had an answer for how the paper would illustrate a story or essay (not to mention how to focus some of our wide-ranging ideas).” Breen, Klugman added, always “carried himself like the pro he was,” and, even today, more than a decade after leaving daily newspaper journalism, Breen “feels an irresistible pressure to tell stories, to speak truth to power, and to inform.”

Reflecting on his career in newspapers, Breen mused that he had been there for enough of the good years to understand both the importance of journalism and “the joy of doing it well. As John Quinn put it so elegantly, ‘It’s the most fun you can have with your clothes on.’”  

 

The Battle of Ap Bac

The future looked bright for Captain Kenneth Good. His superiors had recommended the thirty-two-year-old West Point graduate to leave his role advising troops with the Army of the Republic of Vietnam to serve as an American representative on a guerrilla warfare team in Malaya. Once the popular Good had completed his duty in Asia, the road seemed clear for his future posting to the prestigious U.S. Army Command and General Staff College at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. 

“That man would have been a general one day,” Lieutenant Colonel John Paul Vann, Good’s commanding officer, predicted to Associated Press bureau chief Malcolm W. Browne. “He was one of the most competent, knowledgeable officers in the country.”

Good’s position as senior adviser to the Second Battalion, Eleventh Regiment of the ARVN’s Seventh Division, however, was the last he ever held. A bullet from a Viet Cong gunner struck Good in the shoulder during a fierce engagement near a small village named Bac—later cited as Ap (meaning “hamlet”) Bac in newspaper accounts—in the Dinh Tuong Province, located approximately forty miles southwest of Saigon. Although he received immediate aid and joked with his comrades despite his wound, Good later died from loss of blood and shock.

Good was one of three Americans killed in the January 2,1963, battle that saw VC forces, cleverly concealed in well-dug foxholes and bunkers, shoot down five U.S. helicopters and inflict casualties of approximately eighty killed and more than a hundred wounded on South Vietnamese forces under the command of Colonel Bui Dinh Dam. “Troops of nearly every description were involved on the government side; there were regular army troops, paratroopers, civil guards, self-defense corpsmen and others,” Browne recalled.

Also available to aid in the fighting were American-made M113 armored personnel carriers equipped with powerful .50-caliber Browning machine guns. Unfortunately, as Browne later learned, a M113 on the move made for a “very unstable platform” for the unfortunate soldier manning its top-mounted Browning. A gunner could fire a long burst and wind up missing his target at a range of only a hundred yards. 

The well-prepared enemy held their fire as the first few flights of U.S. Army H-21 Shawnee helicopters ferried in troops to the designated landing zone. Then, a chopper crewman recalled, the treeline “seemed to explode with machine-gun fire. It was pure hell.” The lumbering, banana-shaped H-21s made fine targets for the VC and were riddled with bullets. The ARVN troops they dropped off to fight had nowhere to hide. “When those poor Vietnamese came out of the choppers, it was just like shooting ducks for the Viet Cong,” recalled a U.S. officer.

Unprotected by any armor shielding, eight gunners on the M113s were cut down by well-aimed fusillades. Looking over the battlefield, an American adviser pointed out to a reporter that the enemy had selected its fighting positions with great care, so much so that it looked like a “school solution” from the infantry training school at Fort Benning on how a unit should prepare a defensive position. The VC units involved—more than 300 men of the 514th Regional Battalion and the 261st Main Force Battalion—took their time, before leaving the battlefield, to collect their dead and wounded, as well as grabbing expended brass shells to reload for later use.

Peter Arnett of the Associated Press and David Halberstam of the New York Times had a bit of luck when it came to arranging transportation to the scene of the fighting. Steve Stibbens, a U.S. Marine combat correspondent for Stars and Stripes newspaper, had been visiting with Arnett in the cramped AP office in Saigon when Halberstam walked in. Tipped off to the fierce fighting, the two civilian reporters convinced Stibbens to change into his U.S. Marine Corps uniform and drive them out of the capital to the battlefield in his Ford Falcon automobile. “The uniform helped get us past roadblocks and checkpoints on the way to Tan Hiep airstrip, the staging point for the Ap-Bac action,” Stibbens remembered.

Arnett reported that the road became “jammed with long lines of cars and buses undergoing security checks at heavily guarded bridges and villages.” Arriving at Tan Hiep, the trio came upon a chaotic scene, with jeeps, trucks, and helicopters jockeying for space on the small runway. For the first time in the war, Colonel Daniel Boone Porter told the reporters, the enemy forces “had stood their ground and fought back rather than hitting and melting away into the countryside.”

Inspecting the battlefield, Arnett recalled that he saw twenty-one holes in one of the downed U.S. helicopters. “On its deck lay the open wallet of one of the dead Americans, a 21-year-old door gunner,” he wrote. “There was a picture of his wife and child.” Watching a procession of ARVN casualties limp off a medical-evacuation helicopter, veteran war correspondent Richard Tregaskis, who had flown to Tan Hiep on a Helio L-28 spotter aircraft, saw soldiers wrapped with “bandages across chests, wads of bandage on arms or legs, eyes covered with the bandage—the wretched cordwood of wounded men, their faces frozen with shock.”

Later, a chopper pilot Tregaskis knew described Ap Bac as “about the worst engagement I was ever in.” United Press International reporter Neil Sheehan asked Brigadier General Robert York, who had come to assess the situation, for his opinion. York gave a curt and honest answer: “What the hell’s it looks like? They got away—that’s what happened.”

As for Sheehan, who had to dodge friendly artillery rounds that fell short of their target, taking cover with York, he considered what had happened “the biggest story we had ever encountered in Vietnam.” Although unnamed in press accounts, Vann, the senior American adviser to the Seventh Division, had lambasted the ARVN’s lack of aggressiveness, describing what had occurred as “a miserable damn performance, just like it always is.” He added that the South Vietnamese “won’t listen—they make the same mistakes over and over again in the same way.”

What happened at Ap Bac degenerated into another war of words between the young Saigon reporters and top U.S. military officials in Vietnam, with the press considering the engagement a defeat for President Ngo Dinh Diem’s government, while the top brass viewed Ap Bac as an ARVN victory. General Paul Harkins, who visited the battlefield the day after the initial fighting, had confidently predicted to newsmen at the scene, “We’ve got them in a trap and we’re going to spring it in half an hour.”

No trap sprung; the guerillas had slipped away into the countryside and the remaining ARVN soldiers appeared to be too discombobulated to track them down. Hearing the general’s remark, Halberstam wondered, as he would on many other occasions in Vietnam, if “Harkins believed what he was saying, or whether he felt it should be said.”

In a later statement, the general defended the mettle of ARVN soldiers, indicating that anyone who criticized their fighting abilities was “doing a disservice to thousands of gallant and courageous men who are fighting so well in the defense of their country.” Although U.S. ambassador Frederick Nolting acknowledged there had been some “snafus” that were the fault of Vietnamese commanders, he downplayed the battle’s significance, believing “it was blown out of all proportions by the American press.”

Nolting also criticized Vann for “spilling his guts to the American press and having it spread all over the headlines that the South Vietnamese Army, despite all that the Americans had done to train and supply them, were basically cowards and they couldn’t win. I don’t believe that.” The ambassador added that Vann’s comments to reporters were “emotional and not fair.”

Hoping to put a positive spin on the battle, Admiral Harry Felt, Harkin’s superior due to his position as commander of the U.S. Pacific Fleet, commented upon a visit to Saigon from his headquarters in Hawaii that he did not believe what he had been reading in the newspapers about Ap Bac. Felt insisted to the press that South Vietnamese forces had won the battle. Spying Sheehan in the crowd, Felt told him: “So you’re Sheehan. I didn’t know who you were. You ought to talk to some of the people who’ve got the facts.” A stubborn Sheehan was ready with an answer: “You’re right Admiral, and that’s why I went down there every day.”

Felt later told Secretary of State Dean Rusk that Sheehan’s work typified the “bad news . . . filed immediately by young reporters without checking the facts.” A top-secret report authorized by the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the senior military leaders within the U.S. Defense Department, said the journalist’s reports were merely “ill-considered statements made at a time of high excitement and frustration by a few American officers.”

Veteran combat reporter Tregaskis, the author of the best-selling World War II book Guadalcanal Diary and a dedicated supporter of the American involvement in Vietnam, admitted that there probably were many mistakes made at Ap Bac, as “there always are in a battle.” He protested that critical news stories produced by “younger and brasher correspondents” such as Sheehan could do a lot of harm with the American public.

Tregaskis acknowledged that Ap Bac had been a setback to the South Vietnamese cause, but he also pointed out that the VC had suffered a similar defeat earlier at Phuoc Chau, where the ARVN had crushed a guerrilla force, leaving behind 127 dead with very few casualties on its own side. “At Ap Bac, the VC, apparently a very well-disciplined and well-dug-in outfit did it to our side—but not quite as badly [as Phuoc Chau],” Tregaskis noted. “That’s the way war goes, a bloody business any way you look at it.”

Of course, as Browne noted, the VC certainly regarded Ap Bac as a triumph for its cause. The 514th emblazoned the hamlet’s name in gold letters on its battle flag and propaganda posters from the Communists, “professionally printed in four colors, bloomed throughout the [Mekong] delta, all glorifying the fighters at Ap Bac.”

A few weeks after the engagement, Browne wrote an analysis of the battle that offered U.S. officials, who spoke to him with the understanding they would not be named, the opportunity to talk about their frustrations. “It’s the same old story,” one official told the AP bureau chief. “Americans don’t know Asia exists until some Americans start getting killed.”

Most people Browne talked to believed that the negative political and public reaction to the “bloody clash” in the Mekong Delta came about through “a basic ignorance of the situation.” A high-ranking official conceded that the conflict in Vietnam may have been presented to the American public in an “over-simplified form,” with some believing that the war against the Communists had already been won. “On balance things are going well, but it’s not that simple,” the official told Browne.

A military adviser made sure to point out to the reporter that military leaders in Washington, DC, had been told several times that “this is not a simple war that you win in conventional ways. They see it in a thousand reports every day and they’ve learned the correct jargon about guerrilla warfare—how politics are important and all that. They think they understand, but they don’t. The questions they ask show it.”

Browne also acknowledged the anger felt by some Americans in Vietnam about the press coverage: “The setbacks are always on page one, but the victories—some of them less spectacular—see little print. This is going to be a long, hard struggle, and it’s time people got used to the idea.”
           
 

Top Ten Books for Hoosiers

A number of years ago, I came across an online article with the intriguing title “10 Books Every Minnesotan Should Have Read by Now.” The piece touted Minnesota’s “historically rich literature community,” and included in its listing works by a diverse group of authors, including Laura Ingalls Wilder, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tim O’Brien, and Carol Bly.

Intrigued, I wondered, if I was asked, what ten books might I select for a “10 Books Every Hoosier Should Have Read by Now.” After all, Indiana has just a rich literary tradition as the Land of 10,000 Lakes—something shown in great detail in a Literary Map of Indiana developed by the Indiana Center for the Book for the state’s bicentennial in 2016.  The hardest part in compiling such a list would be to keep it to just ten books. Leaving out some worthy choices, here are my selections, in no particular order:

Ben-Hur: A Tale of the Christ, by Lew Wallace: One of the best-selling books of all time, and one of the best researched. Wallace could not have written such a classic without his experiences in battle during the Civil War.

Slaughterhouse-Five, by Kurt Vonnegut: Another book forged from a Hoosier’s experience during wartime, this time Vonnegut’s capture by the Germans during the Battle of the Bulge in Word War II. Harrowing and extremely funny.

The Magnificent Ambersons, by Booth Tarkington: Winner of the 1919 Pulitzer Prize for fiction and set in a fictionalized Indianapolis. Tarkington captures the wholesale changes in American society during the beginning of the twentieth century.

Fort Wayne is Seventh on Hitler's List, by Michael Martone: Short, sharp vignettes of Indiana lore told with affection and regret by a Fort Wayne native who has left the state, but is not forgotten.

In God We Trust: All Others Pay Cash, by Jean Shepherd: Yes, Indiana, the Calumet Region is part of us. The quintessential Hoosier coming-of-age story. Quirky fun with a leg lamp, a Red Ryder air rifle, and a Fourth of July firework for the ages.

The Old Northwest: Pioneer Period, 1815–1850, by R. Carlyle Buley: Winner of the 1951 Pulitzer Prize for history, the book, written by the son of a Hoosier schoolteacher, portrays in vivid detail the “beliefs, struggles and way of life” of those who settled what became the nineteenth state.

The Negro in Indiana before 1900: A Study of a Minority, by Emma Lou Thornbrough: A groundbreaking work still relevant today by one of the preeminent historians of the state and a dedicated teacher at Butler University. 

Brave Men, by Ernie Pyle: Nobody wrote about war and the strange and awful things it does to those trapped in it than Pyle, who witnessed at firsthand “wholesale death and vile destruction” as he reported from North Africa, Sicily, Italy, France, and the Pacific.

Indiana:An Interpretation, by John Bartlow Martin: A bracing anecdote to feel-good histories that came before, Martin’s work offers not comfort, but challenge to the enduring myth of the average Hoosier. Not for the faint-hearted.

A Lynching in the Heartland: Race and Memory in America, by James H. Madison: The noted chronicler of Indiana pours onto the page all of the horror of the state’s most terrible nights, when two African American teenagers were lynched in Marion. A sobering look at America’s struggles with race.

* Honorable mention: Robert F. Kennedy and the 1968 Indiana Primary, by Ray E. Boomhower: My examination of Kennedy's last-minute, longshot run for the Democratic nomination for president, which kicked off in the Hoosier State and included his famous April 4 speech in Indianapolis announcing the death of civil rights leader Martin Luther King Jr.

 

 

 

 

 

Covering a Coup: Malcolm W. Browne in Saigon

The first sign of trouble came on a clear Friday afternoon, November 1, 1963. Saigon, South Vietnam’s capital, had been “empty and silent” for the traditional noon siesta when Malcolm W. Browne, Associated Press bureau chief, received a tip from a source at the U.S. Embassy. He learned that rebellious Army of the Republic of Vietnam troops had surrounded the central police station and the country’s naval headquarters on the riverfront was also under siege.

 
Browne drove his office’s Land Rover at “breakneck speed” to the navy compound. He ignored the base’s security guard, traveling past him for a half block until he heard yelling and the unmistakable sound of someone “chambering a round in his carbine.”
 

Uncertainty reigned, however, until 3:00 p.m., when Browne and his staff heard planes roaring over their office. With the AP office located only a short distance from the Gia Long Palace, the official residence for President Ngo Dinh Diem, “the combined sound of the strafing and heavy antiaircraft guns was shattering,” Browne remembered. An incoming shell came close to hitting the journalist as he tried to get a better view of the action, but a guard loyal to Diem saved Browne’s life by pulling him through a hole in a wall to safety.
 
Edwin Q. White, who had come from AP’s Tokyo bureau to bolster the staff, dispatched the first bulletin describing the heavy gunfire at the presidential palace and reports about ARVN troops in full battle gear deployed throughout the city. In his article, delivered out of the country with the assistance of the American and South Korean embassies, White predicted that the firing could well signal the start of a military coup against Diem’s government. “Marines in battle dress with heavy weapons and artillery surrounded national police director headquarters about 1350 [1:50 p.m.],” he wrote. “Other police headquarters throughout city were taken over by marines, apparently without resistance.”
 
As White remained at the office, Browne, Roy Essoyan (from AP’s Hong Kong bureau), and Bill Ha Van Tran set out to discover what was happening. “We did a lot of walking, running and crawling, machinegun fire and shrapnel snapping just overhead,” Browne recalled. “There was action everywhere, and no telling where the fire was going to come from next.”
 
The gunfire grew more intense as the sun set. Browne and his colleagues were able to identify where the hotspots were and which units “were clearly on the offensive against government troops and which ones were trying to counter-attack. So, it was pretty confusing. The whole city was divided up into a patchwork of different loyalties and different uniforms and plenty of shooting.”
 
The AP bureau’s “indefatigable” messenger, Dan Van Huan, sidestepped numerous firefights, said Browne, risking his life to keep messages flowing to White at the AP office. “We all think it will be nice to get back to the relative peace and safety of the normal war operations against the Vietcong,” joked Browne.

Rumors, plots, and heralds from above absorbed the attention of Saigon residents in the days leading up to the coup and even afterward. Conspirators seemed to be everywhere, scheming away in each other’s homes, in nightclubs, and in the countryside. “Everybody knew that something was coming,” Browne recalled.
 
Browne even wrote an article, sent over the AP wires, about a rumor that the Vietnamese expected the sun to start revolving strangely in the sky. Large crowds of office workers, shoppers, and strollers jammed into the city’s central markets, only to be scattered by the police. He reported that the sun’s abnormal motion was supposed to be the sign of a Buddhist miracle. Officials were suspicious about the rumor, believing it had been spread “as a test, to see how fast crowds could be assembled at key places in the city,” he added.
 
When mutinous ARVN units finally struck on November 1, plots and counterplots continued rose and fell. Rebel officers sometimes lied to their men about the true purpose of their movement into the capital. A colonel admitted to newsman Stanley Karnow of the Saturday Evening Post that he told his platoon leaders the police “were plotting to overthrow Diem and we were going to save him.” A mystified paratrooper asked his commander who they were supposed to fight and received the answer: “Anyone who opposes us is the enemy.”
 

Confusion also marked attempts by rebel forces to convince government supporters to join their cause. Browne uncovered the story of Captain Ho Tan Quyen, Diem’s naval commander, whose schedule that day was supposed to include an official dinner commemorating his birthday. Early Friday Quyen had been summoned to report to general staff headquarters by Major General Duong Van Minh, one of the key coup leaders. “Quyen drove to the headquarters near Saigon airport, where he undoubtedly met military commanders who were to lead the successful coup later in the day,” Browne reported.
 
Declining to join the rebellion, Quyen sped from the scene in his car toward Bien Hoa, hoping to rally loyalist forces. “Several jeeps and a civilian car were seen following Quyen outside the city,” wrote Browne. “The pursuit continued for eight miles outside city limits, and ended when a burst of submachine gun fire riddled Quyen’s vehicle. His body was laid out in the road and then taken away in a civilian car.”
 
That afternoon Quyen’s staff learned of his death from a revolutionary naval officer, who called upon his colleagues to surrender. Fighter aircraft attacked ships docked nearby, and the craft responded by blazing away at the airplanes with their deck guns, downing one plane, Browne reported. “But about 15 minutes later,” he added, “the naval command staff agreed to give in, and signed a document pledging loyalty to the revolutionaries.”
 

As Browne rallied his AP staff to cover the coup, two of his top men, reporter Peter Arnett and photographer Horst Faas, both away from Saigon, did all they could to get to the capital. Returning to South Vietnam after a trip to Cambodia on an Air Vietnam passenger jet, Arnett recalled that the plane had flown into Vietnamese airspace at 3:00 p.m. when he felt it starting to veer away from its destination. “I banged on the pilot’s cabin door and my fears were confirmed by the captain, who was talking with an air traffic controller; a coup d’etat was in progress; bombers were in the air over Saigon, blasting the Presidential Palace,” Arnett remembered. “I would miss the biggest story of my life because Tan Son Nhut Airport was closed to all traffic.”
 
Thinking fast, Arnett argued with the pilot, pointing out that the aircraft “had a right to land on its own soil” and raising terrible fears about the fate of the crew’s families amid the chaos. Arnett’s arguments worked, and the plane’s captain guided his craft to a safe landing.
 
An airline bus took Arnett most of the way to the AP office before its driver lost his nerve and made his passenger disembark. “Gunfire roared and ricocheted around me,” Arnett recalled. “I could see soldiers firing from upper-story windows at the Gia Long Palace. Our three-story office and apartment building had been turned into a fort with soldiers firing their weapons at the palace across the street, protecting themselves behind makeshift sandbagged emplacements in the parking lot and the first-floor balcony outside my apartment door.”
 
Bursting into the AP office, Arnett saw White, known by his colleagues as “unflappable Ed,” calmly puffing away on a cigar while typing; the rest of the staff had left. “The others are at the Caravelle [Hotel] and I’m holding the fort, which is something I’ve said plenty of times in the past but for once is true,” White told Arnett, who took advantage of a lull in the fighting to make his way to the Caravelle.
 
White remained at his post until 6:30 p.m. when, as Browne noted, “he decided things were getting a little too hot.” Later that night, a shell hit an M48 tank parked in front of the AP’s office, igniting the tank’s ammunition and causing it to burn throughout the night.
 
When he arrived at the Caravelle, Arnett discovered Browne and Essoyan on the hotel’s upper floors, where they had a spectacular view of the fighting going on at Gia Long and the barracks housing its guards. “The rumors and the speculation of months past were coming true before my eyes and I watched it all with a glass of Johnnie Walker Red Label Scotch in one hand and a cigarette in the other,” Arnett remembered.
 
As it grew dark, Browne saw tracers and shells streak through Saigon’s skies, with many hitting the palace, while others fell short, bringing down power and telephone lines. Leaving the hotel as the battle continued to rage, Arnett came upon children running around collecting spent cartridges from the sidewalks, two U.S. soldiers who stopped him to ask directions to the nearest bar, and two drunk Americans walking near the National Assembly building, one of them loudly complaining, “Tell them to knock that off, they’re scaring everybody.”
 
Walking to the Rex Hotel, which housed American troops, Arnett found its officers mess crowded with soldiers, who had been warned by authorities to stay off the streets. “They were whiling away the time rolling dice or playing the slot machines,” he noted. Later, on a suggestion from Browne, Arnett made his way to the U.S. military mission, where he stayed for the rest of evening. He even received a briefing about the coup from an American intelligence officer, “a rare display of generosity toward the media,” Arnett recalled. The official had been impressed by what he had seen from the anti-Diem forces, telling Arnett that it showed that the Vietnamese could “run a pretty good war if political considerations are removed.”
 
While Browne and Arnett tried to stay safe in the embattled city, Faas was in Ca Mau, on a patrol with South Vietnamese Rangers. A U.S. adviser accompanying the Rangers heard a report on his radio telling him to prepare to pull his forces from the field, as a coup had broken out. “Oh shit,” Faas remembered saying, “I’m two hundred miles away from Saigon and that’s the story that’s developing and I’m down here in Ca Mau. Get me out of here as quickly as possible.”
 
Faas hooked up with Steve Stibbens, a Marine photographer for Stars and Stripes, and they were able to get tickets for a flight to Saigon. Unable to land there because of the fighting, the plane diverted its flight to the port city of Vung Tao, located about sixty miles southeast of Saigon. Faas and Stibbens commandeered a jeep from the Vietnamese and drove as fast as possible to the capital, getting there after the newly established 7:00 p.m. curfew.
 
Dressed as he was, in a helmet and makeshift uniform, Faas discovered he had little trouble passing through roadblocks or driving around rebel units scattered throughout the city. Finding the AP office empty, he remembered feeling guilty about being late for such a momentous story.
 
Shortly after midnight, Saigon “became still and dead as a city under the plague,” Browne reported. Downtown streets seemed deserted, and the guns fell silent. The lull allowed a dinner-jacketed headwaiter at a leading hotel, White wrote, to calmly seat a few guests, laughingly explaining to them that “service might be [a] little slow because some restaurant help had left.” A dog’s loud barking betrayed “stealthy movement in the shadows,” Browne observed. “No lights showed from inside the waiting palace.”
 
At about 3:00 a.m., intense gunfire broke out, with large shells from distant artillery hitting a building behind the telecommunications center. Browne could also see tanks moving through the streets, slipping “across the main boulevards from the west and from the riverfront, taking up positions just outside the palace walls.”
 
The final assault on the palace began at 4:00 a.m. “The blast of cannon, machineguns and rapid-fire pieces blended into a continuous roar,” he reported. “The dark shapes in the streets spat clouds of green, yellow and blue fire, and great blobs of red flame marked the exploding shells. Buildings near the palace became infernos, and answering fire from the palace set two armored vehicles afire.”
 

Finally, at 6:37 a.m., Browne recorded, the drained, grimy palace guards surrendered, hoisting a white flag, which was greeted with “a thunderous cheer” by the rebel forces. Faas followed as Vietnamese marines stormed into the palace, smashing chandeliers, tearing down Diem’s portraits, and firing their weapons, though there was no need to do so as the opposition had collapsed. By 9:00 a.m. Faas decided he had taken enough photographs and turned his attention to finding a place to develop his film.
 
With the AP office’s darkroom out of action (the power and telephone lines were out), Faas went to a local photo shop, scaring the store’s staff when he burst through the front door in his makeshift uniform. He used the store’s equipment to develop approximately twelve photographs. With the photos in hand, he walked to the Post, Telegraph and Telephone office to transmit his work with the assistance of an employee he knew, Madame Binh.
 
Talking to Binh, Faas learned that he was the first photographer to arrive, beating his colleagues. “They had mistakenly believed that the post office, because it was occupied by troops, had been closed; it hadn’t been closed. The troops went through it,” he recalled. “The coup troops made a few propaganda broadcasts, occupied it with their people, but the personnel continued as normal.” By 4:00 p.m. a line opened and Faas was able to send his photographs to the outside world. “I happened to be a hero when I thought I would be almost fired,” he remembered.
           
 

The Magazine and the Writer: Harper's and John Bartlow Martin

While living in the Hubbard Woods neighborhood in Winnetka, Illinoi in the early 1940s with his young wife Fran, freelance writer John Bartlow Martin, who made his living writing for true-crime magazines at two cents per word, made an important reconnection with a friend from his days as a student at Arsenal Technical High School in Indianapolis, Francis S. Nipp, an English teacher earning his doctorate at the University of Chicago.
 
Nipp, who Martin called “a natural editor,” and his wife, Mary Ellen, became frequent weekend guests at the Martins’ home. The couples listened to music—Bix Beiderbecke, Benny Goodman, Fletcher Henderson, Jelly Roll Morton, and especially Louis Armstrong—and the two old high school friends talked obsessively about writing.
 
Martin had begun to grow tired of the true-crime genre, which he once referred to as “monsters and ogres and fiends in human form.” In addition to introducing him to serious classical music, Nipp convinced Martin to become a regular reader of The New Yorker and encouraged him to start thinking about submitting “serious nonfiction” to one of the country’s most prestigious magazines, Harper’s.
 
Although it had a small circulation (109,787 in 1940) and offered its contributors paltry fees (usually $250 for articles) in comparison to other magazines, Harper’s reached a vital audience, what one of its editors described as “the intelligent minority” of opinion makers in the United States, “the thinking, cultured reader who seeks both entertainment and an enlarged and broadened point of view.”
 
By the late 1930s the magazine’s subscribers could look forward to contributions from such noted writers as Elmer Davis and John Gunther, as well as monthly columns from historian Bernard DeVoto, “The Easy Chair,” and E. B. White, “One Man’s Meat.” Frederick Lewis Allen, himself a best-selling author, who took over as Harper’s editor in October 1941, said the magazine under his watch intended to print within its pages “the exciting, the creative, the lustily energetic, the freshly amusing, the newly beautiful, the illuminating, the profound.”
 
Martin’s entry into this world came about as the result of a bungled espionage operation in the United States by Nazi Germany’s military intelligence organization, the Abwehr. On the pitch-black night of June 13, 1942, four men left a German U-boat and paddled their rubber dinghy to land on a beach near Amagansett, Long Island, south of New York City. The men were saboteurs sent by the German high command to infiltrate American society and, using high explosives and incendiary devices, wreak havoc on vital war-related installations on the East Coast.
 

Known as OperationPastorius, named in honor of the first German immigrant to the United States (Franz Pastorius), the bold plan also included a landing by another four-man team on June 17 at Ponte Verda Beach south of Jacksonville, Florida. The daring venture disintegrated in rapid fashion; by June 27 the Federal Bureau of Investigation, tipped off by one of the saboteurs, George John Dasch, had arrested the members of each team and had recovered $174,588 of the $175,200 in U.S. currency given them to finance the operation. President Franklin D. Roosevelt insisted that the Germans were to be tried before a military commission. They were all found guilty and sentenced to death, but Roosevelt commuted Dash’s sentence to thirty years and gave another conspirator who had cooperated with authorities, Ernest Burger, a life sentence.
 
Two of the eight doomed German agents were American citizens, including twenty-two-year-old Herbert Haupt, a worker at the Simpson Optical Company who had lived in Chicago with his parents on Fremont Street and had attended Lane Technical High School. During his youth his parents, especially his father, Hans Max, who had served in the German army during World War I, taught him to love Germany more than the United States.
 
Haupt had been considered as a bit of a playboy by his fellow saboteurs and after landing in Florida had gone on a shopping spree, buying a three-piece suit, a Bulova watch, silk handkerchiefs, and several pairs of shoes. He made his way to Chicago with thousands of dollars entrusted to him by his team members and tried to resume his old life there, only to be apprehended by the FBI.
 
Writing a query letter to the editors of Harper’s in early December 1942 about doing an article on Haupt, and what happened to his parents and other relatives who helped him (they were tried and convicted of treason), Martin said the story could be seen as a tribute to the FBI’s excellent work, and that he had access to transcripts of the court’s records. “This really is a fantastic story of how treason is nurtured,” Martin wrote.
 
He went on to call it an “unbelievable true story of a youngster who grew up in a middle-class family on Chicago’s North Side, was taken from a factory job and hauled by chartered plane and blockade runner more than halfway around the world to the Reich, was trained, with typical German thoroughness, in the methods of the saboteur, and returned to betray his country, and, failing, brought death to himself and his family and his friends.”
 

Eight days after sending his letter, Martin received an answer from Allen personally, who said the Haupt article seemed to be a “very promising possibility and we hope you give us a chance at it.” Allen went on to warn Martin not to make too much of the story’s moral or play up the dramatic and “fictionizable” aspects of Haupt’s youth and background. “Simply and clearly told,” Allen wrote, “with considerable sharp detail, it ought to be continuously interesting and impressive in its total effect. Of course you can do some pointing of the significance of the story; the great danger, I should think, would be of doing too much.”           
 
At this point in his career, Martin did not yet really know how to write a serious fact piece for a national audience. His story on Haupt relied mainly on newspaper clippings, trial transcripts, and a certain amount of atmospheric writing that resulted from legwork he had done for his true-crime articles in German neighborhoods on Chicago’s North Side, where Haupt grew up. “I plead ignorance,” he said. “Later I became almost obsessed by being thorough in my research, and I always piled up high mountains of notes from interviews and documents and legwork on atmosphere that I could not use. But at that time I knew nothing of this and, I fear, wrote several pieces for Harper’s mainly from clippings.”
 
Martin admitted he probably did less legwork on the Haupt article than he had done on many of his pieces for Keller’s true-crime magazines. Considering the speed at which newspapers operated, and the frequent inaccuracies they therefore contained because they sometimes were written by inexperienced reporters, Martin said it was a “miracle” he never had to answer a charge of libel or had any of his facts successfully challenged in his early work for Harper’s, which also included a piece on the young members of Chicago’s Polkadot Gang that robbed several taverns and killed an off-duty policeman.
 
Martin had the good fortune to have as his editor Allen, who spent considerable time offering him suggestions for improving his Haupt manuscript before its publication in the magazine’s April 1943 issue. Allen told Martin to alter his beginning, adding a reference to the initial landing of the saboteurs, “something everybody remembers and which will arouse sharp interest,” and asked him to cut some of Haupt’s pro-German sentiments, as they were too repetitive.
 
There were a few other queries and revisions he wanted Martin to review, but overall Allen said he did not believe there was anything that needed extensive revision. After seeking approval from the Office of Censorship, which Allen believed would not be a problem, as the trial was public, he said the magazine would send Martin a check for $250. Martin wrote Allen back approving the new lead, saying it “sharpens the story and hammers home its significance.” He ended his letter by noting his appreciation for the publication of his article and expressing the hope they “could click on another one before too long.”
 
Harper’s became so interested in Martin and his work that he eventually traveled to New York to meet with Allen and his associate editors—Russell Lynes, George Leighton, John Kouwenhoven, Jack Fisher, and Eric Larrabee. Martin was impressed by this group, particularly Allen, whom he described as “a slight man, so slight he looked almost frail, with sparkling eyes and a ready laugh, a wise man with an endlessly inquiring mind.”
 
Martin had read Allen’s classic book on America in the 1920s, Only Yesterday, and he eagerly learned about how to write from the way Allen edited his stories, “cutting, tightening, endlessly tightening, and pointing up.” Martin never forgot one of Allen’s pronouncements: “Never be afraid to address the reader directly, to write, ‘As we shall see,’ or ‘Let us first study the slum itself,’” something Martin often did in his later multi-part articles for the Saturday Evening Post.
 
Impressed by the work Martin had done on the Polkadot Gang article, Leighton proposed that he begin writing articles about what the editor called “crime in its social context,” taking one of his fact detective cases, expanding the piece with additional facts, getting rid of the fake detective work, and developing “the lives and social backgrounds of the criminals and their victims.”

Subsequently, crime became for Martin a way to write about his fellow human beings and their place in society. He also learned that East Coast editors felt out of touch with the rest of the country, and often asked Martin about what people cared and thought about in the Midwest. “Just as farm boys yearn to go to New York, so do New York editors yearn to know what’s on the farm boy’s mind,” he said. “Sometimes they sounded almost anxious.” As he talked to them, some of the parochial concerns he had began to fall away and Martin developed a different view of the country’s problems and politics. “From editors I got something more valuable than editing—insight and perspective,” he noted.
 

The leisurely, often luxurious trips Martin made from Chicago to New York by railroad in the 1940s remained firmly etched in his mind for years to come. For the sixteen-hour trip, he had his choice of two trains—the Twentieth Century Limited, operated by the New York Central Railroad, or the Broadway Limited, run by the Pennsylvania Railroad. Martin remembered:
 
“You went down to the railroad station and waited at the gate with the crowd and, when the gate opened, walked through clouds of steam alongside the long train, all Pullman cars, and found your numbered car, and the Negro Pullman porter in white uniform asked your space and, hearing it, called you by name and took your bag and led the way to your roomette, the tiny antiseptic room with its grey steel walls, its gleaming chrome washbowl that popped out of the wall, the heavy windows with their rounded corners, the spongy upholstery, the rust-colored blankets lettered PULLMAN, the little shoebox with a door in the aisle so the porter could get your shoes and shine them during the night and replace them gleaming in the morning.”
 
Once he had stowed his bags, Martin retreated to the bar car so he could sit with a drink and watch through the window as the heavy industrial sights of northwestern Indiana faded into the flat plains of the northern part of the state. By the time dinner was served, the train had made its way to Ohio, the state where he had been born.
 
After dinner, served on tables draped in white tablecloths and decorated with shining silverware and a bud vase with a single rose, he retired to his room to work for a time on his portable Remington Rand typewriter, usually preparing a memorandum or an outline for a story to share with an editor. “I would go to the bar car for a nightcap then back to my room,” said Martin, “pull the bed down feeling it brush my pajamas, then squeeze into bed and snap off the lights and lie in bed watching the night, listening to the soft clickety-clack of the steel wheels on the steel rails in the night, sleeping.”
 

When Martin arrived in New York, he headed for 59 West Forty-Fourth Street, the location of the Algonquin Hotel, where he always stayed, at first because of its writers’ tradition (the hotel hosted the famed Algonquin Round Table of wits, including Dorothy Parker, Robert Benchley, Heywood Broun, Ruth Hale, and George S. Kaufman), but later because he loved its “Edwardian elegance and came to know its staff and its owner and manager.” Martin also preferred the Algonquin because of its location—the hotel was within walking distance of almost anywhere he needed to go to pursue his writing career. “Virtually the whole United States communication system was crammed into a postage-stamp-sized patch of midtown Manhattan,” he noted, including Harper’s offices on Thirty-Third Street.
 
Martin hit his stride in conducting true heavy-fact legwork for a story he did for Harper’s on the wartime mood in Muncie, Indiana, which had a reputation, thanks to studies done in the community by sociologists Robert Stoughton Lynd and Helen Merrell Lynd in 1924 and 1935, as being the quintessential midwestern city.
 
For his article, “Is Muncie Still Middletown?” Martin traveled to the smoky factory town and interviewed at length union leaders, factory workers, businessmen, farmers, politicians, soldiers, college professors, and average people eating in cafeterias. “From several I drew their life stories. And repeatedly I asked: ‘What do you hear people talking about these days?’ This was the heart of my story—what Midwesterners were thinking about in wartime,” he said. Martin also believed a writer could get a more accurate sampling of public opinion through personal, lengthy interviewing than by “so-called scientific public-opinion polling.”
 
 

Death in a Cold Place: Burial on Attu

To recapture Attu in the Aleutian Islands from the Japanese in 1943, U.S. military forces suffered extreme casualties, losing 549 dead and another 1,148 wounded—ranking, in proportion to the troops engaged, as one of the costliest battles waged in the Pacific theater, second only to the Battle of Iwo Jima.

Robert L. Sherrod, a war correspondent for Time, shared the human cost of the Aleutian battle with the magazine's readers in an article, “Burial in the Aleutians,” published in the June 28, 1943, issue. The article examined how those who fell were laid to rest on Attu.

For most of a night, caterpillar tractors towed trailers over the valleys and plateaus between Attu’s high peaks, bringing 125 dead Americans to be buried in the Little Falls Cemetery—named for a nearby waterfall and one of two graveyards on the island.

Most of the dead had been killed in a Japanese banzai charge and had been “horribly mangled by bayonets and rifle butts,” Sherrod wrote. (The Americans who collected their dead with “tight-lipped calm,” later vomited as they gathered for burial the 1,000 Japanese who died in the attack.)

The sudden influx of bodies had overwhelmed the graves registration company, which augmented its numbers by dragooning clerks and truck drivers for burial duty. “Their reactions are sober,” said Sherrod. “There is no excitement at this scene of wholesale death.”

Perhaps trying to offer solace to families who lost loved ones in the Aleutian campaign, Sherrod wrote:

“No nation handles its casualties as carefully as we do. The 125 who lie in rows at the edge of the crude cemetery were examined meticulously. A medical officer (Captain Louvera B. Schmidt of Salem, Ore.) recorded the cause of death and the number and type of wounds as each body was unclothed. Members of the graves registration company cut open each pocket and placed the personal effects of the dead in clean wool socks for dispatch to the quartermaster depot at Kansas City. One identification tag has been left on each body, the other nailed to the cross which will be placed above the grave until a larger metal plate can be stamped. The graves are laid out in perfect geometrical pattern; they have been charted so that no mistake can be made in locating any body.

Three sets of fingerprints were made from the hands of each dead man. One set stays with the man’s military unit, two will be sent to the Adjutant General in Washington [D.C.]. (If a soldier’s “dog tags” are missing and his personal effects carry no absolute identification, his body is not buried until some men from his unit have made positive identification.

After fingerprinting, the bodies were carried through the identification tent and wrapped in khaki blankets tied at three places: around the neck, the waist and the feet.”
 

Bulldozers dug the graves because there was no time nor labor available to dig them with shovels. “The bulldozers plow back & forth until a space seven feet deep has been scooped out,” Sherrod said, “which is long enough to place eight bodies 18 inches apart. Then into the collective grave small one-foot deep individual graves are scooped out by shovel. Thus, each man lies with seven of his comrades."

Three chaplains conducted the burial service, singing verses of “Rock of Ages” over the clanking and chuffing of dozens of tractors working on the muddy roads and beaches a few hundred yards away. Sherrod noted that Lieutenant Colonel Reuben E. Curtis, a Mormon from Salt Lake City, Utah, opened his khaki-colored Bible and read: “Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me. . . . O God, great and omnipotent judge of the living and the dead, before whom we all are to appear after this short life to render an account of our works, lift our hearts, we pray Thee.”

Close by the graves, two buglers closed the service by playing “Taps.” The chaplains placed their caps back on their heads, Sherrod reported, and the graveyard bulldozer "huff puffs again, pushing mounds of cold Attu earth over the khaki-clad bodies of eight U.S. soldiers."

A young lieutenant spoke for many on Attu when he said, after looking at the bodies lined up for burial at the cemetery’s edge, “I wonder if those sons of bitches holding up war production back home wouldn’t change their minds if they could look at this.”